To be Born from the Ashes
by Always-Striving
Summary: Hope is futile; the Hundred Year War still ravaged the world, and the Fire Nation still retaliated during what had been thought to be a new era of peace. But futility doesn't stop it from being renewed by the discovery of the exiled princess, daughter of the late peacemaker, Fire Lord Zuko. Whether this means an end to all the bloodshed, however, remains a matter of opinion. AU
1. Chapter 1

_Princess Royal_

_noun_

_1._

_the eldest daughter of a king or queen._

_2._

_(in Great Britain and, formerly, Prussia) an eldest princess to whom this title has been granted for life by the sovereign._

* * *

Chapter 1

_"A statement has just been issued from the palace: Ursa, Princess Royal, daughter of Zuko and Mai, is by the Fire Lord's knowledge, alive. She escaped captivity before her parents' deaths, although her current whereabouts are unknown at present."_

* * *

The Fire Nation Royal Palace was known for terror.

Foreboding and deadly, terrifying but awe-inspiring—many a man had _died_ there. There, conspiracies lurked, poison infected all, and the bittersweet scent of incense and revenge threaded its way into every touch.

There, Princess Azula waited.

The princess looked about with what could have passed for cool observation as she made her way through the famed corridors. She was not at all bothered by the vastness of the galleries or the grandeur of the walls, certainly not—it would have been unbecoming. _And besides,_ she thought idly, _I've lived here all my life, how pointless and pathetic would it be for me to be surprised?_

She was Azula. She was poised. She was perfect.

_No, Azula. Don't you see? This mask you have is only hurting you. You hide_—

_Shut. Up._

Left, right, turn, left. Right, right, down, left. She knew this route so well she could have gone blindfolded. Once she was at her destination, the princess' long, painted nails scratched lightly against the golden frame of the door. The coiling dragons molded in were supposed to give one a sense of reverence, but it only gave her cause for amusement. Because she was Azula, she revered none but the Fire Lord, and she'd seen this door far too many times to care. She turned to face the room, smiled, and entered.

Everything was exactly the same—the neat brushes on the desk, the dao swords on the wall, the robes by the armoire—the only difference was the dust. A veil of cobwebs blanketed everything, and the scent of mothballs, candles, and disuse was so poignant that Azula would have considered leaving Zuko's old room.

Would have.

Instead, she put one hand on her hip and paced the length of the carpet, imagining her brother on the bed, reading the old, faded copy of _Love Amongst the Dragons_ on the nightstand. "Did you hear, Zuko?" She asked no one, pretending that he was really there, really sitting on the bed. Looking up, scowling at her. "Did you hear the rumors? There's girl who enrolled in one of the schools in that _colonial town_ you set up. She's being guarded by the Avatar and that Water Tribe _peasant,_ from what I've heard. There are rumors that she's the princess royal."

"Mind your own business and go away, Azula." Is what he would have said. "None of that concerns you, anyway." Just thinking about it made her smile. No, not smile. Smirk. That same smirk that infuriated him so; made him snatch and scrabble at the bait. Ah, the memories...

"But Zuzu, oh Zuzu... You really don't change at all, do you?" She tsked, just for the fun of it. "It _is_ my business, Dum-dum, I'm the crown princess, and her aunt." Pause. "And well, she _is_ a threat to the throne, now isn't she? We can't have any sort of conspiracy, questioning Father's right to rule. It's my responsibility to take care of that." It felt so wonderful to imagine his face: shocked and outraged—the two faces Zuko had pulled best. But that wasn't the best part; that was the _terror._

_Well, I can't blame you, __Brother.__ You should fear me. After all, my power has always been so much greater than yours._

Azula looked about the room in lazy curiosity, not real, of course. She'd gone through his things so many times already she didn't really care. But this was such an _amusing_ game of pretend that she might as well try to get a rise from him. Time could pass all it wanted, but Zuko would never change.

How fitting that she told him the news here; so many memories were in this room, Azula smirked. Zuko had always been so foolish. So thoughtless. Always the vigilante of the family—and their father had hated it. How fitting it was that she told him this in the same place she had once told him about his own shattered fate—_Dad's going to kill you!_—and how fitting that he was powerless this time, just like the last. Served him right.

Azula heaved a dramatic sigh, narrowing and closing her eyes at what had once been pools of lukewarm wax, dripping onto the desk, now hardened and cooled, covered by a film of filth. "You know, you really do deserve it, Brother dear. You were always such an embarrassment, and even if you weren't, you still went and became a traitor." Pause. "Well, that's all I had to say for today. Good bye, Zuko."

She turned back to where he had been, ready to smirk that same infuriating smirk, wondering if he was rolling in his grave because of it—

Her breath caught in her throat. She couldn't breathe. _No, no._ She assured herself, feeling a bit breathless, _Zuko isn't here. Dum-dum isn't here. Zuko is dead. How silly of me._ It was a figment of her imagination—it had to be. Zuko was dead. Zuko was dead. Zuko had been dead for years! Just like Mother, and Cousin, and that _worthless_ traitor Mai. Azula wanted to believe that; her mind screamed that that was the _only _explanation, she herself had been the one who had ordered his death, but when she looked up...

He was still there.

What was even worse, even more maddening, was that _look_ in his eyes. Sadness, mourning _pity._ As if he'd ever understood her. As if he had _ever_ understood her... She could feel it, her rage clawing up her throat, threatening to burst. She gritted her teeth, clenching her hands so tightly her knuckles were white and shaking. Dimly, she registered the heat biting into them, and the faint smell of burning flesh.

"I'm so sorry, Azula. I should've known..."

* * *

So, for those of you who recognized the summary, congratulations! Good eye! It's the same summary to my old story "Ashes and Embers" which has now been taken down because of a lack of encouragement and thus, a lack of motivation. I decided to give it one last chance by revamping it with an entirely new beginning. Same basic plot, I'm just wondering if people will like this one better. Therefore, you can guess that this piece is purely experimental. If you like it, please say so in a review. If there isn't enough positive feedback for me to feel like this story has potential, I will take it down (and will not repost. I need to promise myself that). Thank you for reading, and anything you have to say about it is very much appreciated.


	2. Chapter 2

Yeah, I've been feeling really guilty about not posting anything lately. Unfortunately, I'm really busy with school, can't find my big book of story ideas, and am really, really tired right now since it's nearly midnight and I wasn't able to sleep earlier. So for those of you still interested in this story, here you go.

* * *

The renowned residence of the esteemed Avatar Aang and Waterbending Master Katara was famous for its happiness. Its echoing laughter, boundless energy, and constant, inescapable warmth was well-known throughout the world; the sweet nursing sky bison, the frolicking children, the exuberance, and embracing maternity—all unmistakable signs of the sort of bucolic life the avatar and his family had come to represent.

In this chocolate box utopia of smiles and childish impishness, Aang himself was known to hop on an air scooter, laughing uproariously as he chased his shrieking children through the wide, sun-lit halls, later to be chided by an admittedly amused Katara. The children would then gather around them with Kya and Bumi both voicing their indignant protests, and even obsequious Tenzin putting in a rather surly comment every once and a while. With a grin soon afterwards, Aang would gesture to his angel-faced playmates, and say, teasingly, "See, Katara? The kids like it! You don't want to ruin their fun, do you?" Sounding convinced that they could do no wrong as he awaited his wife's inevitable permission to resume their shenanigans.

Aang and Katara always felt overjoyed by this idyllic life they lead together, and there could be no question that they loved their children and that it made both their hearts swell twice as big when they heard their resounding laughter across the island. But this sort of familial bliss; this sort of beloved paradise; this sort of immunity to all the hardship in the world, it served another purpose.

It kept the secrets locked away...it kept the demons from returning undaunted.

There was one door on the island that none of the children were ever allowed in, one that they had all passed, giggling and toppling over one another time and time again. Behind a seemingly nondescript door made of the same rice paper and mahogony wood as the rest of the temple, there was what's called a study. Nothing separated it from any other ordinary study: desk, books, low burning candles...except for the state of it. None of it (when the story begins) had been touched in a very long while. Probably years—one, two, ten, twenty—no one kept track, why would they? The only time anyone ever entered No Man's Land was to keep order in this spooky den: to keep the dust from clinging, keep the ink from drying, keep the memories from molding and fading away. The place was scrubbed down and polished to perfection, yes, but no soul dared to stay for long afterward.

o~O~o

Gentle hands touch upon the aged and yellowed paper, their slim fingers shaking as—softly, lightly, hardly at all—pale tips trace the characters. Eyes gold, shocked, and almost fearful as they water over with tears, stare at the name. Over and over again, they linger towards it. The eyes wander. The fingers trace. Over and over again.

They trace.

From.

They trace.

The.

They trace.

Desk.

They falter.

_"Happy beyond belief, Zuko."_

_"She's just perfect, and my heart swells just looking at her."_

_"We've decided to name her Ursa after my mother,"_

The room is dark, echoing of melancholy as never-ending, mournful unshed memories drift and sob throughout the room, whispering, begging, pleading...before finally fading away with wisps of the wind; the only light is the dim, breaking, fragile—oh, so fragile—glow of dying embers. The light sputters and darkens, almost fighting, even though the sparks have long since lost the will to fly from this pitiful pit. The breaking glow casts an almost unnatural glow on the only life in the room: a person (staring, tracing) their silhouette hunched over the archaic writing, their spirit thrown into chaos. Confused, hectic, shocked, and broken—there is nothing left.

A gust of wind—the forgotten yell. A flash of lightning—the twisted smile.

The silhouette straightens suddenly, snapping straight as if just bitten by a rabid animal and a soft whimper escapes as they stare at the letter, now in their hand, sobbing. Sobbing such a dark, hopeless cry...nothing, nothing at all (especially not this infernal room, closing in with all its tainted promises and empty memories) can console the poor creature. The creature—the silhouette—turns away, and without another word, Princess Ursa flees.

The letter is gone.

o~O~o

There was another child on the island; another child of war. How strange it is, you may muse aloud, that there are children whose lives—whose light, innocent lives—were still torn apart in the world by such greed. The Hundred Year War was gone and faded, naught but a distant memory fifteen years past...but for some, the agony still lingered and taunted regardless of time.

Now this particular child was quite special, for in the enemy's land, in their palace, you could see her little face, and in her last portrait she beams and shines with all the blissful innocence of a six-year-old imp, sitting cross-legged on the floor at the feet of a man. This man is young, young and strong and strangely serene, his pale skin and thin face do nothing to hinder the silent power of his gaze. One eye is golden, smooth, and whole, arched sharply as is common for Fire Nation folk; the other is just as gold and just as sharp as its twin, but marred by flesh, warped and withered in deep red, carrying the distinct impression of strength reminiscent of a dragon's all-knowing glare.

Now when our story begins, that child hung back in her room as the rest of the family ventured into the city for dinner and a film. She looked nothing like the great Avatar or his beautiful wife, bearing none of the wise traits of the Air Nomads nor the hardy features of the Water Tribes. In truth she—with her pale, pointed chin, glowing, yellow eyes, and long, ebony hair—looked much more like the man. She had grown into quite a beauty over the years, but that did not change that she was one of them.

They who had terrorized the world for a hundred years and beyond, they who stood surrounded by the smoky stench of burning flesh and hair, they, who had always been and would always be the sons and daughters of fire.

There came one day, bustling and booming with frenzied activity as the whole of the city prepared for the memorial celebrations, when she found herself in a rather melancholy mood. It could be called ironic, with the whole of an industrial metropolis only a bay's length away rushing this way and that in the cold, crisp sunshine of mid-fall. But it had never been strange, because as much as that day—that strangely beautiful day—was meant for joys and praise, for her, it was meant only for throbbing pain and mourning. As she stared at his official portrait that day, robes flowing and dragons coiling beneath him just like every year before, it struck her that it had been nine years.

Nine years.

With a heavy heart, forever forced to carry such a horrible ache, she conceded, _It's been nine years since they took him away..._

She couldn't bear to think of it any longer soon after the thought hit, and decided to return the portrait back to its proper place of nine years on the left side of the second desk drawer. This drawer was filled with her most precious momentos: faithful ribbons and diaries, old trinkets and charms; the strange thing is there had been a recent addition to her prized collection as of late: an old, faded letter, first bearing these words:

_From The Desk of Fire Lord Zuko_

It was the most precious of all.

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Remember to review. Each and every review is cradled for warmth, and they always help me when I'm going through a rough time. They ARE appreciated immensely, even in my sleep-deprived, fatigued state of mind.


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